Muninn
by Felicity G. Silvers
Summary: His first memory is a raven, leaning forward. His second is waking and knowing nothing about himself or where he is.


On the 27th of January, I added a prompt to my long long long looooong list of prompst: something to do with amnesia. I've been encountering amnesia in a great deal of the media I've been consuming lately, and it's an idea I quite like. Ten thousand three hundred words later and a week later, here we are.

Muninn is one of Odin's ravens, and his name means 'memory.' His pair is Huginn, meaning 'thought', and the two fly all over and come home at night to whisper in Odin's ears what they saw.

This is not romantic. It is, ultimately, a friendship fic. It does not end happily, though I never saw it going there.

**Warnings**: Blood, death, asshole ravens

And with that, enjoy.

* * *

**Muninn**

Blood splatters on the floor in a wide arc. Under his fingers, bones bend and bend and bend then _break_ and it is more than just necessity now—there is want and hurt and _anger_ driving him.

Distantly, he can hear the flutter of the raven's mate. He ignores it, fingers grasping and plucking out the heart. It is a gem in his hands, ruby red and still pulsing with residual shock. He holds it up to the light and studies it.

The raven's mate shrieks, throaty and rough and angry, and he thinks _good_.

XXXXXX

When he wakes, he feels mostly numb. All he remembers—really remembers, memory that has image and sound and _reality_ to it—is a raven with shimmering wings and brighter eyes speaking to him. He does not remember the words, does not remember what came before, or after, or even where this fits in time. It is almost dream-like, or what he images dream-like is because he does not know anymore, but at any rate, it is almost dream-like how the raven tilts its head then leans forward.

He does not think he struggled, except sometimes, he thinks, he must have. His first memory, after that (he thinks it was after that because it is his first _proper_ memory that doesn't feel of dream), is waking in a room he did not know, his throat aching as if he had been shouting. Screaming, even. It's not as if he knows.

No one says what happened and that, that they _must_ know and they do not _say_, aches when he is not exhausted by all he does not know.

XXXXXX

He gets lost one afternoon. It eats at him, that he is lost in halls that he must have known once.

He tries to let his feet guide him to not-lost, let muscle memory do to the work, but all that happens is he ends up deeper in hallways that he certainly knows less than the ones he was lost in.

Whoever he was _before_ (and it was someone different) has left something of _pride_ in him, because he does not ask anyone where he is or how to get to where he wanted to go. He revels in the taste of who he was, though it leaves him bitter and snappish, until he finally settles by a window that looks out over vast landscapes he knows less than he knows this palace.

Someone, he thinks, will eventually want to find him.

He is not wrong.

"Highness?" a servant asks nervously.

"Yes?" he asks instead of showing his relief.

"The queen would like to see you," she says.

He nods and stands and he follows her until he is in the gardens that he has had more chance to actually learn since waking.

XXXXXX

Sometimes, he will see his reflection and stop entirely, caught off guard, as if he were expecting to see something else. Blue skin instead of white, or red in place of what? It's indistinct, but there, beneath the skin, a memory burned into his soul. He isn't even sure what it means or if there's more to it than vague impression.

He places it next to _pride_ because it is all he has of whoever he was before.

XXXXXX

There are people who claim to be family, though he feels little for them. A mother, a father—things all people have, whether they know them or not. A brother.

Thor treats him kindly, as if making up for past transgressions, apologizing for centuries of neglect. It grates upon his nerves, makes him uncomfortable and his skin itch, and it is only worse when he snaps and Thor accepts it with sorrow in blue eyes.

They claim these ties and Loki—that is what they say his name is, _he wasn't even left his name_—does not know what to make of them. He does not remember them. There are no echoes, no sense memory that truly recalls them. Not at first.

Frig—Mother—the Queen's embrace, that has some echo of ache and joy to it. It startled him, the first time she embraced him, even as physically he seemed to know her touch. He still does not know if she is 'mother', but it is something. More than Odin or Thor.

XXXXXX

He remembers some pieces of who he was. It's not remembering. Not truly. It's only what his body remembers, things ingrained that even the raven could not take from him.

He can fight. He is fast and sure, and it is utterly disorienting, that his body knows what it is doing while his mind barely does, and it makes him slip when he goes and spars with Thor and his friends (because what else is there to do? get lost once more in the halls he is expected to know?). And food. His tongue remembers flavour, his nose scent, and without thinking he asked once for a favourite dish, something he could not help crave though he had no idea what it _looked_ like. His hands remember the weight of book and careful handling of old scrolls.

His feet know the way to the stables and the odd eight-legged horse there.

The horse recognizes him, but then, he supposes, so does everyone else. It's only him that does not recognize _them_.

XXXXXX

"Brother," Thor says, coming in one afternoon, only to pause, that flash of worry and concern and something somewhat like guilt crossing his face as he stops. "Loki," Thor corrects, and it is correcting. He does this and Loki does not know _why_.

"Yes?" he asks, when it becomes clear Thor will not continue without prompting.

"I am going to Midgard; my companions there need aid. Would you come with me?"

He has nothing else to do except read old tomes and wonder and he grows so tired of it. Midgard, he hopes, is somewhere he has not been.

"Of course," he says and he smiles a crooked grin he does not feel.

XXXXXX

Fighting _by_ Thor, instead of sparring _against_ him—now _that_ he knows. He has never fought with his human companions, but that does not bother him. There is something electrifying about fighting at Thor's side, a familiarity and knowledge so deeply ingrained that that hateful raven could not steal it away with the rest.

He cannot help laughing, because it _aches_ and yet it is utterly gratifying.

XXXXXX

He stays on Midgard awhile. It is not as if he has better to do.

He does not miss Thor's friends are skittish of him. It is common enough reaction, uncertainty in how to deal with someone who has lost his memory. It frustrates him in a now familiar way, that despite his hope at escaping Asgard's tentativeness he has once more come across it. He ignores it.

He cannot remember who he was; he does not know why they expect him to suddenly regain it. It has been near half a year, he thinks—he may be wrong, though, as time seems pointless when he could simply lose it once more.

Midgard is covered in ravens in winter. He finds he dislikes them immensely, watches them distrustfully when he goes out, and spends as little time outside as possible when he can.

(Sometimes he dreams now. Mostly he dreams of the first raven, the one that spoke to him, and of strangling it, watching it struggle to escape his grasp, and then digging his hands inside and pulling back out what he was. He always wakes troubled. He adds _vengeful_ next to _pride_ and _blue_.)

XXXXXX

"Would you like to get some coffee?"

Loki looks away from where he is examining the skyline, debating if he wants to go out (_not_ examining how many ravens he can find). It is the painfully earnest one, Steve, the captain of sorts.

And he looks earnest now, sincere blue eyes meeting Loki's own without flinching. An effort, more than the rest of Thor's companions have made. Loki is tempted to tell him to go away, to rebuke him. He has begun to sort out some of it; at some point, he must have fought them. Over what he couldn't say—there is nothing on this realm that he wants badly enough to warrant fighting over it, and fighting seems too forward.

(He thinks that once, he was also _sly_. Or perhaps that is simply part of who he is now. Perhaps who he was was always bold and brash, but he suspects not.)

"As touching as the sentiment is, you do not need to pretend interest in my company," he says, realizing that Steve is still waiting.

"It's not pretended," Steve says.

It's intriguing in a way, how honest Steve is.

"I am not whoever you seem to think I was."

"I know," Steve says. "You're different now. That's okay too. I just thought you might like to go do something, it's been a bit quiet around here lately."

It is the first time someone has acknowledged that he is not whoever he _was_, not whoever they _expect_ him to be.

"As you wish, then," he tells Steve.

XXXXXX

Steve, as it would turn out, has a reverse problem to Loki's own—he remembers many things, but they are so far in the past that nothing lines up to the present. To remember and yet still get lost. Loki is not sure if it is a kindness or not. At least Steve is still allowed surety in who he is. All Loki has is _blue_ and maybe_ sly_, _vengeful_ and _pride_.

In any case, he suspects it is both that and Steve's sincerity that led him to wish to get to know Loki. They spend much of their time exploring the city, so they have _something_ to discuss, and occasionally Steve will tell him how it used to look nearly a century ago. It is enjoyable enough and for the first time, he begins to feel as if he has an identity outside of memory-less prince of Asgard. He learns he enjoys art well enough, that he has a sweet tooth, discovers the simple joys of ice-skating and snow ball fights, finds clever wordplay pleasurable both to hear and engage in. He dislikes street magicians—truly all of Midgard's magicians, who have no talent for proper magic, though, grudgingly, he will admit to respect for the sleight of hand.

He hates ravens, summer heat, and bitter things.

XXXXXX

He has a talent for magic.

Loki is near certain that prior, it went beyond talent into something practiced, but now, without actual memory, he can only do things reflexively. Fire is simple—conjuring it, flinging it, quenching it—and illusions come and go easily enough once he experiments a little. But the more complex tasks, say mending a broken thing, those escape his grasp. He can acquire books on Asgard that deal with it, but they make his head ache. Whatever knowledge he had before is so disconnected from instinct now that it frustrates him. It feels as if something much more than just his memory of magic was taken, as if his memory of how his own magic _worked_ is gone.

XXXXXX

The dreams grow worse, more pressing. In the air, it feels as if something hums, buzzes against this skin. Something, he knows, is not well. Something will go wrong. He only does not know what.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks.

"Yes," he says without thought. It is truth—everything is well _now_. He does not know if it will stay that way and it worries him.

"Hey," Steve says, drawing his attention back from aimless nervous energy, "you know you could tell me, right?"

Loki smiles.

"Yes."

That is true, too.

XXXXXX

There is a fight a week later.

Everything is well. Everything is well. Steve is wounded, but nothing that is permanent.

It makes Loki feel sick. Steve is _his_. Not his past self's, but something purely his _now_, and the thought of losing that—the first person to truly treat him as he is now—hits him with the realization that he must not, _cannot_, lose him. The value of that, of their relationship, such as it is. When Steve finally returns, finally is released from the doctors that hover and worry, Loki does not immediately go to find him as much as he wants.

He is not sure what to do. He has not had anything of value to lose, does not remember anything he has feared losing before, and the feeling is vast, sparking something dark and protective.

_Vengeful_, he thinks. But not quite. A different word. _Possessive_.

He is possessive now, and he doesn't care whether it is something he once was.

Needing to do something else, anything else, he leaves and wanders the city streets that he has become familiar with. He watches the skies as he thinks, until he finally ends up at their cafe.

"Is Steve okay?" the barista, Mary, asks.

(It amuses him, sometimes, that he knows more of Midgard's terminology than he does Asgard's these days.)

"He will be," he assures her.

"Are you?" she asks.

He shrugs, a fluid motion, and offers a half-smile.

"The usual," he tells her. He has no idea what to tell her, what is expected. How, he wonders, could he possibly be fine when he has realized what losing someone means? He wonders if this was any less strange and horrifying when his past self learned it. When his past self would have learned it—as a child, most likely, but he wonders if his past self truly understood what that meant.

When his coffee arrives with extra whipped cream and is more milk than coffee, he is surprised, but he supposes not _too_ much. Midgard, he has noticed, has people generous in their comforts for the nameless hurts, no matter if the person necessarily knows what is causing it. He makes sure, when he leaves, to thank Mary.

Coffee the way he prefers it. It is a little thing, but it eases some of the dark that is pressing inside him.

XXXXXX

It is Thor he asks first.

Thor, after all, claims to be his brother, and he feels as if he must know _something_ of who he was. If he does not, how can he hope to keep what he values now safe? He has decided he will likely not be able to connect to his past self, to whatever drove him, but he needs to know what all he is capable of.

(It is more than just Steve, he realizes, but much of Midgard. Outside of Thor's friends—and, Loki supposes, his own sometimes allies—none seem to know him, and it has allowed him to create a new life. It is in idle kindnesses and small scale tragedies, in snow and summer humidity.)

Thor looks caught and torn, that guilt Loki has grown used to seeing hovering in his eyes.

"We should walk as we talk," Thor finally says.

"You won't make it rain, will you?" Loki jokes lightly, because it is better than the dread that suddenly fills his stomach. If he is honest, he does not much wish to know who he was anymore, is content enough with the now. Steve, he reminds himself. Steve and Midgard and all its small kindnesses.

Thor smiles at the jest.

"Are you sure you wish to know?" Thor asks him.

"No," Loki says. "But I need to know something of what I can do."

Thor nods, stands, and they leave the tower.

Loki keeps expecting as Thor talks to _remember_ any of this, for things to suddenly click into place. But there is no emotional response to what Thor says. He observes Thor's own emotion, how heavy and unhappy it is, but himself... nothing. Adopted and Jotun—that at least explains _blue_, how he does not look like any of his family, and his love of cold, though he does not grasp why Thor looks at him in worry, as if waiting on him to snap in anger. If he knew anything of Jotnar, it is gone with the rest of his memories and is now no more than a word and a people on another realm. Magic, which makes what he does now look like trick (Thor is hesitant speaking of it, and Loki has not missed how often Thor praises it after fights; it makes him wonder if, at another time, it was viewed differently); this is something he suspected, but the confirmation does not make him happy, or unhappy. It simply is.

In truth, much of what Thor tells him simply is. It is as if he is hearing about a stranger who happens to share his name, that people oft confuse him with and he must gently (or not gently, sometimes it grates too much) correct that _no_, he is someone else. They are mistaken.

"Why?" he eventually asks when Thor is done talking and they are simply walking. The skies overhead are cloudy but no rain; small blessings. By now, he would expect Thor's emotions to have torn the skies in two. Perhaps, he thinks, Thor has been changed as well by what has happened.

(He remembers when he first discovered that Thor had such link to weather—to thunderstorms—and his awe at it. He had felt child-like (what he imagined child-like feels), felt so very small, and it had been a moment when he knew that whatever his memories had been, the raven had taken all of them; if there were any left, surely he would remember _that_.)

"I don't know. It is what Father thought best. Mother says that he always has a plan," Thor admits, a look on his face that suggests that he does not agree or believe, even still.

The jolt that runs through him at the words is his first physical memory of Odin—as if he has heard them so many times it causes visceral response, anger the likes he has not felt before. Low simmering fire twisted up in love and hate and something desperate, and it makes him stop walking entirely. He feels nauseous and grateful that he did not ask until here on Midgard, away from Odin.

"Are you alright?" Thor asks, worried. Worried as ever—it is his concern that makes Loki believe Thor, that they are brothers.

Loki looks up to meet Thor's gaze after the feeling passes, faded to fog and distance like everything else from before. It's hard to hang onto such anger without anything else to support it.

"Well enough," he says.

He thinks of his first memory, the first _real_ memory, waking and his throat aching like he had been screaming. What's best indeed.

As they head back, they pass a noodle shop Loki is fond of, and wishing to push away the conversation, he drags Thor in. Thor enjoys it—he does not venture out the same way that Loki does with Steve—and a year has made it so that they have more to talk about than they once did. Spending time apart (frequently, as Loki prefers to stay on Midgard) helps. There is much Thor does not know about what Loki does on his own and while sometimes Thor grates on his nerves, for the most part the lunch goes well enough before they head back.

XXXXXX

"Who was I?" he asks Steve. "How did you know me?"

Steve pauses, clearly caught off-guard.

"I didn't. Not really," Steve admits. "Just what Thor told me and what I saw."

Loki thinks a bit about this, watching children play. It is autumn again, like when he first arrived on Midgard, and the heat is finally beginning to fade.

"What did I do?" he asks.

"You're a different person now," Steve says, reminding him—as if he needs reminder. "And I don't know why you did what you did, which is sometimes just as important as the what." Steve looks serious; whatever it was, it must have not been kind. There are parts of the city Steve yet avoids when they are together (he has looked on his own and found memorials there).

Loki looks down at his hands, flexes them, and watches a flicker of green fire swirl over his fingers. He is not kind now, he thinks, especially not when what is his is involved. This city is his, Steve is his, and, in their own way, many of the other Avengers are also his—even if they do not necessarily trust him, they have at least grown used to him and followed Steve's lead in all the ways that matter. He still remembers the looks of surprise at his viciousness, and he imagines that turned upon what now he so values.

"What did you know of me?" he amends. He does not much want those memories, or even echo of them through someone else.

"You were smart and fast. The first time we met, you hit me hard enough to throw me across half a plaza. You were good at causing trouble." Steve stops, uncertain what else to say. "That's really all. I didn't know you then."

"Fair enough," Loki says.

"You had a reason," Steve says. Loki glances at him, notes the set of his jaw, how determined he looks. Steve needs to believe this; Loki himself is not so sure. What reason could he possibly have had for attempting to take a realm?

"Why? You barely knew whoever I was. What makes you so certain?" It is petty, but sometimes he still finds Steve's faith unnerving.

"You don't have to remember to have had a reason," Steve says patiently. He's thought about this—Loki is not surprised. Steve thinks about many things, even if he doesn't often voice his thoughts. "_You're_ different, but at your core, you're still you. You don't do things without reason, no matter how obscure it is to the rest of us. It's like..." Steve pauses, collecting his thoughts. "It's like blue, or pride, you know? Things that you are, no matter if you remember them or not. You always have a reason. I don't know if it was good or not, but you had one, and most the time, your logic now holds up. So it was probably good." He grins a little, bashful, and runs a hand through his hair.

"And what if that changes? What if I remember and it wasn't a good reason? Or there was no reason at all?"

Steve shrugs.

"Then you remember. We deal with that when and if we need to."

XXXXXX

The questioning seems enough. It satisfies whatever remnants of curiosity he had, and he does not dream anymore of the raven.

He explores a little of what he learned. If he focuses, he can summon ice as readily to his fingertips as fire, and if it sometimes leaves streaks of blue on his skin, it does not bother him. It clearly surprises Thor to see him use it, and the first time it happens Thor cannot hide the mild disgust that flashes across his face.

One night, he focuses, until blue spills across his skin like ink. It looks, he thinks, right enough. Blue is as much one of his colours as green. He likes blue; it reminds him of Steve and clear skies and winter, and it was one of the first things he knew about himself. The markings, rune-like, are interesting in their own way, though he does not know their purpose. In truth, he doesn't much care. He vaguely remembers reading of a war between Asgard and Jotunheim, which may at least explain Thor's disgust (and other than that moment Thor does not treat him any differently than he ever has).

It is a nice enough skin, he supposes, only unfamiliar like when he first woke. He wonders if his past self wore it often, if that is why it was so impressed upon him it disoriented him when he saw his reflection and did not see blue skin and red eyes.

Tugging his shirt off, he spends a little time examining himself in the mirror, following the markings with his fingers curiously. One swoops down his forearm, wraps around his wrist, and he turns his wrist over to follow the line and pauses.

Silvery, scarred, there is a word spelled in rune:

_Muninn_

He brushes his fingertips over the runes, feeling how soft it is, almost like down feathers.

"Muninn," he says aloud.

_A bird. A raven._

_It is best we take your memories, princeling, you know this. Now hush, don't make such fuss. At least Huginn is not eating your thoughts, eh? and the raven laughs until it cuts off in rough croak. It leans forward, beak opening, and he_

shouts, stumbling back, skin turning white again and scar vanishing. He stares at where the word-name was, then looks up at himself in the mirror.

Wide-eyed, frightened. Helpless.

Anger coils deep in his chest. Anger and hate, and he remembers his first memory, the dream-tinged one.

"Muninn," he says, fixing the name to the bird he chases in dream.

XXXXXX

He glances up while he and Steve are walking in cool winter air and sees a raven. He frowns, loathing the bird with everything in him for a dizzying moment, hot and edged, before he restrains it, cutting it off. Moments later, the bird falls dead, and he blinks, stopping.

"What is it?" Steve asks, pausing to look at him.

Loki pulls his eyes away from the bird to look at Steve. Steve did not notice; he is grateful.

"Nothing," he lies.

Later that night, he concentrates on the sensation again. His head feels as if it might split apart, but he uses ice to slow it down, to examine it, and realizes it was a spell, so quick and instinctive he did not recognize what he was doing. The spell writhes and pulses slowly inside the ice (it is ugly, ugly and jagged and cruel).

It takes a little effort, but he unravels it. It nicks his hand, and blood wells up. Unlike his other wounds, it does not heal immediately—it stings and lingers.

He does not mention it to anyone.

XXXXXX

For a few weeks, everything is otherwise well.

XXXXXX

"Rudolph, your six."

Loki spins around, throwing a knife with enough force to momentarily stop the lone draugur that followed him. Seconds later, Thor brings Mjolnir down upon its head, leaving undead smear upon the ground.

"How many are left?" he asks.

"Maybe a doz—_shit_, Cap!"

Loki turns and _runs_; Steve should not be far, just around the corner, not far enough to make a difference, everything will be _fine_, draugar may be strong but they are not strong enough to hurt _Steve_ and what was he _thinking_—he wasn't, that much is clear, but he lets himself breathe as he rounds the corner and sees Tony and Steve. They fight nearly as well together as he and Thor.

Thor is not far behind; between the four of them, the last draugar are quickly dispatched. Steve insists on making sure everyone is alright afterwards. They were fortunate today, this incident reported early enough that no one was killed, only a few injured and general fear left in its wake. Reassured, Steve finally cracks a grin and relaxes.

"What do you smile about?" Loki asks him.

"Just," Steve hesitates, glancing over to make sure Thor is out of earshot, "just it looked an awful lot like Thor was playing whack-a-mole for a bit there."

Loki laughs at the image; Steve grins wider.

"True enough." Loki waves Thor's curiosity off, then glances at Steve as they begin to walk. "What's that?"

"Oh, nothing," Steve says, glancing at his arm.

"Let me see."

"Really, it's nothing, you've taken worse than me—"

"Steve," Loki says. Something twists and worries at his insides, seeing the blood on Steve's arm. Steve sighs and holds his arm up for examination.

"Mother hen," Steve teases.

Loki studies the mark on Steve's arm, torn through his suit, bloodied. His hands press at it, feel for the familiar tingle he associates so with the serum that altered Steve.

"Hey, now," Steve protests. "That hurts, you know."

"It's not healing," Loki says, frowning. He does not remember how to heal, has not been able to sort it out (not for lack of trying; healing, he thinks, would be useful, but if he cannot put together a box once more, what hope has he of something far more complex?), and the sick feeling in his stomach returns all at once.

"What?"

"It is not healing," he repeats, thumb pressing along what he suspects are teeth marks. Some of the draugar had shifted shape, it is not beyond the realm of possibility. He looks up and meets Steve's gaze. "Bruce is looking at this once we get back."

"Okay." Steve is frowning now; good. Good. Steve always takes better care of himself when he understands the worry it causes others. Then, "But you have to, too. I know I heard your ribs crack."

Loki rolls his eyes, hiding the depth of his concern, letting go of Steve's arm.

"Fine."

XXXXXX

Loki sits through Bruce examining his ribs—they had cracked, but by the time Bruce looks, there are little more than mottled black and blue bruises across his skin. Steve, freshly showered, sits across from him, looking down at his arm. Without the dirt and grim of the fight, without his suit in the way, it looks worse.

"You're good," Bruce says, shaking his head. "Steve, let's see your arm."

"Bite," Steve explains. "One of them turned into a mountain lion or something like that, tore straight through the suit and into my arm."

"It is not healing," Loki tells Bruce when it becomes clear that Steve will not. He tugs a shirt on and leans over to where Bruce is looking at wound. It oozes a little blood still, surrounded in red, angry marks. Bruce frowns, looking at Loki.

"How can you tell?" Bruce asks. "How long ago did you get this Steve?"

"I looked," Loki says, annoyed that Bruce will not take him at his word and trying to be marginally understanding about it. Bruce is a doctor, a scientist, and if there is one thing he has learned, it is that they never take someone at their word, always following up behind with more questions and tests.

"It's been what... an hour now?" Steve says, uncertainty written across his face.

"Two," Loki supplies.

Bruce's frown deepens.

"Does this look like it's changed at all to either of you?" he asks.

Steve and Loki both look to Steve's arm. Loki can see Steve's uncertainty, and he is not surprised. Steve so rarely needs to know the state of his wounds other than immediately life-threatening or not.

"It has not," Loki says.

"That's not good," Bruce says. "Something like this should already be scabbed over for you, Steve. Probably most the way gone, actually, based off your past recovery rate. Thanks, Loki."

"What are you thanking him for?" Steve asks.

"He's the one who told me," Bruce tells him. "You would have just ignored it for who knows how long."

Steve flushes some; Loki smirks at him.

"It's nothing big," Steve says.

"It's not healing," Bruce says at the same time as Loki.

"Come on, few more tests, then bandage up." Bruce hesitates, then looks at Loki. "Anything you can do? Anything else you can tell?"

Loki shakes his head.

"Maybe once. Not now."

Bruce nods, and that's that. Loki has always been grateful for Bruce's forwardness, his practicality at what Loki no longer knows.

"We'll get it taken care of. Nothing a bit of research and study can't take care of. Loki, if you can see if there's anything on those things in one of your books, I'd appreciate it. Thor mentioned they were something you guys had seen before."

"Yes. Draugar, from Helheim. I will see what I can find." He meets Steve's gaze, sees the worry lurking behind sky blue eyes. He thinks how Steve has not needed to worry about injury, and smiles. "It is probably nothing. I am simply being a mother hen."

"You owe me something for sitting through this," Steve says, grinning. But the worry doesn't leave.

Loki understands. He feels it in his chest, his stomach, black twisting beast that claws at his heart. If only he still _knew_ how to fix this, still knew what he did _before_. He has no doubt that he would not only have known much about the draugar, but the things they can do, what to look out for, how to fix this. Had magic that went beyond sorcery and instinct.

"Do let me know if you need anything," he says lightly as he can before leaving.

XXXXXX

He cannot find much about draugar that he had not already figured out from fighting them. They are undead, heavy (thus his cracked ribs; one had tried to crush him by weight alone), able to change shape, and best defeated either with something legendary (such as Mjolnir) or sheer attrition.

More concerning are some of their other traits: phase through things, slip into a being and wear at them from the inside, rise up once more.

He lets the others know about that last detail. It seems prudent to keep an eye out for it while Thor—_Thor_, it nearly makes Loki laugh if the situation were not so serious (and yet he still finds it causes him a bit of a chuckle)—plays priest to the area and ensures they will not come back again based off the rites Loki manages to find.

"Are you sure you would not prefer to do so?" Thor asks him.

Loki shrugs.

"What does it matter? You are competent enough."

Thor gets an odd look on his face at that, but nods and does not ask again.

The notes on them say nothing about poison or venom, nothing about inhibiting healing, though there is something how the wounds they inflict are difficult for even Aesir to shrug off.

Loki hopes that is all it is, all that they need do. Wait some.

He tells Bruce, and Bruce reluctantly agrees to waiting. He can find nothing that is causing Steve to not heal, though the wound has finally _finally_ clotted enough it no longer oozes blood slowly. Loki sometimes catches Steve rubbing at the bandage on his arm, frowning some.

A week later, the wound is gone, leaving behind pale and twisted scars.

XXXXXX

He walks into the kitchen late at night after a particularly vivid dream wanting some warm milk and honey and stops.

"Steve?" Loki asks, though it is very clearly Steve.

"Oh, Loki," Steve says, turning around from where he is warming some milk on the stove. "Startled me." He offers a smile, but Loki does not miss the strain at the edges of it or the dark circles under Steve's eyes.

"My apologies. Are you well?" He moves across the kitchen, trying not to worry his lip. Something is _off_, beyond Steve being awake in the middle of the night without there being an emergency, something that sets his teeth on edge.

"Oh. Yeah." Steve is an awful liar—his eyes tend to dart to the right and his face always gets a bit too stiff to be believable. "Just had a bad dream."

Loki knows of Steve's bad dreams but he suspects this is not the usual kind.

"Is that so?" Loki says, folding his arms.

"What are you doing out of bed, anyway?"

"Bad dream," Loki says flatly. Steve looks up, meets his eyes briefly, and then away. "You are aware you can tell me what troubles you, yes? It applies both ways."

"I know." Steve grins again, not quite touching his eyes still. He sighs, letting the smile drop when Loki does not change his stance. "I know," he says, more honest now. "Just don't want to worry anyone."

"That is the most worrying thing you do," Loki points out.

Steve chuckles a little.

"I know that, too." He takes the milk off the stove, pouring it into a glass. "You want some?"

"That was my intention," Loki says.

He waits until they both have their glasses—his own with some honey—and have drunk a bit before he tries to approach the subject again.

"There's more than just a bad dream that has gotten you out of bed," Loki says.

"Yeah. Just... ever since that bite, I've felt off. Like I'm starting to get sick." Steve sighs, rubbing his hand in his hair. "Kind of sore and aching, and I can't sleep through the night anymore. Keep having all these really strange dreams that don't make any sense but always feel pretty rough, like I've been running marathons in my sleep. I just needed something tonight, that's all. It's not a big deal."

Loki thinks of wearing someone down from the inside and how that would manifest. (He resolutely avoids thinking how he wishes to shake Steve for not _telling someone_. That will not be productive right now. Perhaps later, once this is past.)

"Anything else?" he says instead of accusing Steve of recklessness.

"Not really. Look, don't mention it, will you? I promise I'll tell you if it gets worse. Tonight was just worse than normal, it usually isn't so bad. Like your sleeping in the middle of summer when we go camping and it's too hot, that's what it normally feels like."

Loki hesitates. He _wants_ to mention it, to tell someone, because someone needs to know besides himself. Yet there is plenty he has told Steve, and Steve so rarely asks for anything from him.

"Swear it. Swear you will tell me if things get worse," Loki says.

"I swear I'll tell you if things get worse."

"And _if_ they do, I will not keep my promise."

Steve hesitates fractionally. Loki waits.

"Okay. But only if I get worse."

"I promise. Only if you get worse."

XXXXXX

Loki does not actually need Steve to tell him when it gets worse. He sees it happen.

One of Doom's many creations manages to shoot Steve in the back. Steve falls and does not get up. Does not roll, does not grunt, blood splashing across the street, shield clattering.

It is the only sound Loki hears. Everything else stops, utterly silent.

He does not remember much of what happened that, all of it tinged in fire and ice at the edges of his vision. There are snippets: the feel of metal grinding and crushing beneath his hand, blaze of green fire, and _hate_. Overwhelming, all-consuming _hate_.

XXXXXX

"He's stable," Bruce says quietly.

Loki looks up, his hands still covered in blood, hearing the but hovering on Bruce's lips. He feels frayed at the edges yet, still piecing himself together after the almost welcome blankness his rage brought him, the stoic calm that followed in its wake when he gathered Steve up and brought him back.

"He's not healing fast enough." Bruce stops, pausing. "Whatever that bite did is still holding on. If we don't figure something out..."

Loki swallows, world bending at the edges again.

"How long?" he asks quietly.

"Two days at most." Bruce frowns as Loki stands. "Where are you going?"

Loki stops.

"Who I was," he says instead of answering the question, "who I was. He would be able to fix this, would he not?"

Bruce is silent, and Loki half-turns to look at him, meeting clear green eyes.

"You don't have to. We will figure out some—"

"_Would I have been able to undo this before?_" Loki demands, hands curling into fists, shaking.

"You could have," Bruce finally says. "I don't know if you would."

Loki nods.

"That is what I thought. Do not tell Steve if he wakes. I will be back before... before this ends. Keep him alive until then." He hesitates and thinks about what he knows of the Loki the others knew, before Muninn stole his memories. From the air, he twists one of the few spells he yet knows and a hawk's feather appears in hand. He offers it to Bruce. "If you find a way, before, call me with this. Burn it—fire, not one of your chemicals." He does not let his voice shake. He keeps his hand steady, meets Bruce's eyes.

(He does not know if he will remember this time, where he has not remembered himself before, does not know who he was, does not know enough to swear he will be back. To _promise._)

Bruce takes the feather, nodding.

Loki ignores the sadness in his eyes.

XXXXXX

"Thor," he says, once his hands are cleaned, once he has centered enough that it is not obvious from the outside how much he has begun to fray at the edges. "I need to go to Asgard."

Thor stops what he is doing.

"Now?" Thor asks.

"Preferably, yes," Loki says.

(Of course _now_ he wants to say, wants to scream, but it will get nothing done, will draw attention, and he needs to not do that. No one needs to know.)

"Very well," Thor says.

Thor waits until they are alone on the roof of the tower before he asks the reason why.

Loki hesitates.

"Were I to ask," he says instead, careful (_screaming_ at himself, because this is too far, too much a tip of his hand, will reveal too much), "would my memories be returned to me?"

Thor does not say anything at that. Loki does not look away from Thor's gaze, does not waver, does not shake or tremble. Thor only looks at Loki (wasting _time_, precious sweet time, the sooner this is done the better, he knows so little except what dream has shown and does not have _time_ to find out more).

"Not if you asked him," Thor says, and Loki knows he means Odin, All Father, their supposed father, the one who thought this best. "And it is treason to act on such without his blessing.

Loki nearly misses how he phrased it.

"I know you do not remember," Thor says, seeming non sequiter, "but when we were boys, we often did many, many things that we were told not to. You stole some of Idunn's apples once. I remember, I was to keep watch, and I complained bitterly. But then Mother stumbled upon the path, wishing to visit with Idunn. I have never been skilled with words as you are, but I have always been good at keeping people from noticing you; no one found out until later what we had done, and by then our bellies were full of the sweetest fruit Asgard had to offer."

Thor turns away, gazing over the city.

"I would not mind doing so again, if it is what you truly want," Thor says.

"I imagine," Loki says, "they were very good apples."

"They were. They gave you a belly ache though."

"It only made them sweeter," Loki says with a surety he does not feel. There is a difference, he thinks, between too many apples and memory sudden returned.

Thor nods.

"I am glad you asked to go to Asgard, brother," Thor says. "I have need to speak with the All Father at length. Mother has been nagging at me to take greater interest in trade relations, and it is high time I do so."

Loki smiles.

"Do not throw a tantrum, brother," Loki says. "You know how your temper can be."

"I will do my best," Thor promises. He claps a hand on Loki's shoulder, eyes serious though his face remains cheerful. "Remember, Loki, that I love you."

XXXXXX

Asgard is delighted to see them. Loki sits through a dinner he'd rather miss, mind unable to stop calculating how much time has passed on Midgard, unable to stop conjuring up all the ways Steve could die before two days. Stable, but if anything goes wrong, worsens... he yanks his thoughts away from such and focuses on the now.

"Father," Thor says once dinner is done, "I need to speak with you."

Odin pauses, frowning slightly as he looks to Loki.

"Do not mind me," Loki says. "I have need to find a few things in the library, to take with me to Midgard. It is why I came back after all."

It is not a lie. There are, after all, many many things in the library. If Odin thinks it only books he searches for, then so much the better.

"Very well," Odin says, and he and Thor leave together.

"Loki," Frigga says.

He pauses at the doorway.

"Do not forget again," she says.

For a dizzying moment, he is afraid that he and Thor have given something away, something to show what it is Loki intends. It must show on his face, for Frigga shakes her head slightly.

"My weaving has vexed me of late. I've needed to burn a few things."

_Seer_, he remembers. She is a seer; she had told him as much when he was first learning who she was again. Frigga had explained to him what that meant, how she most often saw things related to family and all the possibilities of their actions. He had simply not considered it, not thought it worth considering, and had thus not planned for it.

(Briefly, sickeningly, he wonders what would have happened if she did not seem inclined to let he and Thor go on with this plan.)

"There is a small party in the gardens this evening," she says. "Even the scholars are leaving the books behind tonight, and I've extracted promise from your father to come by. I'm sure you are quite tired from your travel, though, so do not worry about coming."

"Yes," he says, still disoriented. "I will only be getting a book or two before I retire this evening I think. Give my regards, won't you?"

"Of course." She leans forward, pulling him into embrace, and if it lasts a few seconds too long, he does not begrudge her it. Then she steps back, pulling his head down, and places a kiss on his brow. "Sleep well," she says, eyes a little sad.

For what, he is not sure.

XXXXXX

The library is, as promised, quiet. Quiet and dark. He can hear faint rustle of breeze against the curtain.

If he listens carefully enough he can, he thinks, hear the flutter of wings.

He shuts the library doors behind himself and leaves a trail of magic on them, so that if any should enter, he will have warning, will be able to hide himself and what he does. It is not complex, not subtle—it will certainly singe whoever comes in—but he hopes, between Thor and Frigga, he will not need it to be.

He walks softly, so that they do not hear, though he has little doubt they are aware there is _someone_. He counts it fortunate he never truly desired to have his memories back before, has never given them reason to think he is aware of their role in this, so they do not know he knows where they prefer to roost. He does not draw it out yet, but in his mind, he remembers the feel of the dark thing of before, the spell that is ugly and jagged and cruel.

(If he is honest, he does not want his memories now, but he _needs_ them. Steve is _his_, and he cannot let him die.)

He had planned to simply sneak up on Muninn and kill him, tear the memory that is rightfully his out. Steve, though, would not want that. Steve always favours talk before action, even when it is clear that talking will not work. Loki does not think he could meet Steve's eye after this if he does not at least try. (Remembering the words Muninn said, he thinks this is one of those times that talking will not work, no matter how silver his tongue.)

"Muninn," he calls, drawing forth a bit of fire, casting green tinged glow everywhere, turning gold to ruined copper.

He hears them both now, distinct rustle of wings and feathers, clack of beak and scratch of feet on the rafters. They are not, he realizes, quite so small as the ravens of Midgard, and it is only emphasized more when one of them—Huginn, Huginn because Muninn has a single feather that sticks up, some parody of a crest—lands before him with a swoop of wings, staring at him with intelligent and glittering eyes.

"You are not Muninn," he says.

"Aren't you a clever one?" Huginn says with a laugh, walking in a slow circle around Loki. Loki follows the raven with his eyes, but he does not turn when the bird is behind him despite everything him wanting to. He will not show these things fear. "Muninn is not here, little prince."

His eyes narrow.

"Then this," he says, "will do nothing," and he hurls the fire towards the rafters. Huginn hisses and above he hears and sees glimpse of Muninn darting away from the green flame. "It seems, Huginn, you are not capable of thinking things through. I wish to speak with Muninn. I have no quarrel with you yet."

"Oh, he's figured it out," Muninn crows. Loki looks up and sees the other raven perched upon a bookcase, peering over the edge at him. "Come to beg your memories back, little princeling?"

"Yes," Loki says, though his pride aches to admit that it is begging. He does not turn to look as he hears Huginn launch itself upwards, settling somewhere higher.

"_Do_ tell. It must be for a good reason, you've so _changed_," Muninn says.

"It's the little soldier in blue," Huginn says. "Blue, like the little Jotun monster, no wonder he likes him so. Did you know the little soldier is as unsuited to his people as our little prince?"

"Is that so? Whatever happened?" Muninn asks.

"Do not speak of what you do not know," Loki says, then forces himself to stop and take a breath. "He has been bitten by a draugur, and it has nearly undone his ability to heal. He will die. I knew once what to do, how to fix it. He needs my help."

"And all you need are your memories," Muninn says, voice kind as a raven's voice can be, and for a moment Loki thinks that perhaps he was wrong, that perhaps, for once, all Steve's words about talking will help. That perhaps the bird will be sympathetic.

Then they both set to laughing, strange cackle and caw, reminding him of the sound of ravens chattering on Midgard. Cruel and ugly and jagged as the spell coiled in his mind and at his finger tips.

"Should have thought of that _before_ all this," Huginn says first, and Loki thinks that he tried, that he spoke, and when this is done he will be able to look at Steve in the eye, and then the fire he has kept lit to see vanishes and he _changes_. The ravens' eyes do not adjust half so fast as his own, no—his Jotun skin is far more sensitive to light, to heat, and he can see the ravens where they perch. The air twists around them when they try to launch upwards and away, buffets them down, and ice frosts their feet.

If it were only that easy, he thinks as they manage to right themselves, not quite caught. But they are as much legend as he, as Thor, as all of them here in Asgard.

Muninn, he knows, will try to flee. Knows it from hundreds of dreams spent chasing the raven. He waves a hand, and ice coats the windows, thickening until the birds will not be able to crash through the panes. It races along the cracks in the walls and doors. He hears the satisfying squawk and thud of one of them and grins, vicious and wolf-like.

The library is large, yes, but now there is no where else they can go.

"Cowardly pigeons, aren't you?" Loki says as he strolls down the aisles. "Nothing but talk. Talk and chatter." The wind shifts behind him and he turns, green fire crackling in the air. He sees the outline of one of them, smells burnt feathers, and lunges forward. He manipulates the air so that it fights against the raven's struggles to right itself, other hand reaching out to grab the bird.

Briefly, he feels the air shift, then his control of it is gone, the raven grabbing control of it with words Loki does not know. The air is sharp enough to cut as it blows back against him. He braces himself, raising an arm as shield when the raven—Huginn, he sees—claws at him. Huginn's beak is sharp and for a moment he feels things warp, feels _bird leaning forward_ and he half-panics. Cruel, jagged spell lashes out vine-like, wrapping tight around Huginn's foot, half-alive as it tries to spread higher.

(He _cannot_ lose his thought, cannot let the birds get close enough, be still enough, to take his memory once more, take his thought for the first time.)

"Come along, Huginn, is that all you have? Muninn, really now, letting your pest-ridden mate take the worst of it. I'd never have thought memory so cowardly," he goads into the now silent dark.

"Find me, little princeling," Muninn caws, voice echoing, resonating from everywhere and nowhere at once. "But you can't, can you? Can't _remember_."

Loki stops pacing, licking his lips. No. No, the bird can't be hiding somewhere he only knew before. There is nowhere for it to _go_, only the library, there are no other places. He has made sure of it, before one could slip away—

Huginn slams into his back, claws and beak sharp, tearing through the fabric of his clothing, and he falls to the ground, tries to twist around, hands fumbling, grabbing at the wicked sharp beak with both hands to stop it before the raven can do more. Terror weaves the spell that laces the air, terror and instinct, barbs digging deep into Huginn's feathers, leaves blood spilling over his hands that is not entirely his own as Huginn pulls back with a beat of wings. The raven launches up in drunken flight, and Loki's front is coated in sticky warm blood and feathers now.

He gasps on the ground, pushing himself back up, keeping himself alert, heart pounding too loud in his ears to hear the rustle of wings right now. His hands shake, and he does not let the spell leave now, let's it stay around his fingertips though he can feel the way it tries to writhe out of his grasp and cut him.

_Instinct_, he thinks. Instinct, like the spell. His feet led him to the library before he even knew the way, he has been here a million times. Instinct knows, even if he does not _remember_ the way Muninn expects.

He stills his breath. He thinks of dreams a thousand times chased—and it has been Muninn his fingers have clenched tight around—and tries to ignore panic in favour of simply allowing his body to lead the way. He steps forward, and the air _shifts_, tickles at his skin and buzzes along his every nerve, the movement _between _places as easy as breathing.

And there is Muninn.

The raven is clearly stunned, nearly as stunned as Loki, but Loki reacts first. He lashes out with fire and ice and vine-like spell that wishes to devour everything it touches to drag the bird down, gripping his hand tight in feathers and feeling the muscles of Muninn's wing beneath his hand. The spell slips out of his control, cutting deep into his hand, but he does not _care_, only cares for how it tears into Muninn, until the bird goes still.

Under his fingers, bones bend and bend and bend then _break_.

Distantly, he can hear the flutter of the raven's mate. He ignores it, fingers grasping and plucking out the heart. It is a gem in his hands, ruby red and still pulsing with residual shock. He holds it up to the light and studies it.

Huginn shrieks, throaty and rough and angry, and he thinks _good_ as instinct presses inside his head and leaves it aching. He lets instinct drive him and bites deep into the heart.

XXXXXX

_"I am not _mad_!" he shrieks, knowing the pitch his voice hits does not make his case any stronger, knows that he is near begging now. Why can't they _see_ that, how did no one _notice_ when there was so much _different_. "Thor, _ask_, Brother, please, you were so close, you _asked me_—"_

_"There is more than just your actions on Midgard. Do you think I wish to do this?" Odin says._

"Yes!_ A thousand times yes! It is easier for you, isn't it," voice turning to snarl, "easier if I can't _remember_ all your mistakes, if I don't _know_ what I do now, how you did not _tell me_, how you deni—"_

_"Enough!" Odin snaps._

XXXXXX

_It's as if he can think clearly for the first time in an age, and though the rest of him aches, his body shakes as he tries to turn, he breathes a sigh of relief. His mind is his own__, entirely, not just in part. When he turns, though, Midgard's warriors are there, ever ready._

_He smiles as best he can and asks for his drink. He can explain, he thinks._

XXXXXX

_It feels as if there is some lag between what he thinks and what he_ does_. Not much, but a second long enough that he cannot always grasp at what he does and _why ___he does._

_"Who controls the would-be king?" Thor demands, eyes wet with tears, and Loki wants to say _Yes, help me, pride be damned, Thanos, Thor, you must warn Asgard, warn them properly, beyond this farce of a war_ and instead he says words he doesn't know, head aching, before he is left in control again._

XXXXXX

_He lets go._

XXXXXX

The first time he made himself change to _monster_, disgusting blue skin, staring at his reflection and not recognizing himself, and not able to demand more because all Mother had said was Father always has a plan and all Odin has said has confirmed it was something that must be kept secret, something _wrong_. He stared at himself and _hated_.

He opens his eyes and he sees the shadow realm of the library beneath him, sees Muninn laying dead at his knees. His hands are blue, still, covered in runes.

Blue is his colour. It suits him. It is the Midgardian sky, the hue of Steve's eyes, as much his colour as green.

Blue is not his colour. He hates it. It is Jotnar, monster, ice when he is fire, and as both thoughts try to merge, as they fight, he feels wretchedly ill, cannot stop how he shakes, memories yet trickling in.

How, he wonders, could he so misinterpret what was left behind?

XXXXXX

Loki does not have much time left. Much of a day has passed on Midgard when he finally forces himself to move. Asgard is still lost in whatever revelries Frig-Mother has planned, night only half spent. He can distantly hear the crack of thunder, and knows somewhere Thor is yelling down Odin.

_Remember, Loki, that I love you._

Where, he wonders, was such love when he needed someone to stop Odin the first time?

His mind conjures memories of the past year, before he knew, and he stops walking again, leans against a wall as he tries to sort out the dizzying conflict of emotion. It does not, he decide, absolve Thor of before, Thor who likely _had_ thought him mad and decided it was better to have his mad brother than whatever shell had been left. Thor had—_has_—changed from what he once knew.

(Words that spilled truth, that told him all Thor knew of his being adopted and Jotun, of giving him distance when needed, of not prying, tell Loki as much. It is both no Thor he knows and the only one he knows.)

Loki thinks of Steve. That, at least, is uncomplicated. He had not known him before.

(Except it is as complicated, more so, torn apart by memory returned. He is not who Steve befriended now, even if those parts are part of him, unforgettable.)

He steps along pathways that Heimdal cannot see and leaves Asgard.

XXXXXX

Steve is asleep when he arrives. Alone, too, or as alone as one can be in this tower.

It is easy now, to draw the lone draugur spirit out that managed to slip in with the bite and encase it in a gem. Steve lets out a sigh, but does not wake. Loki stays quiet and watches. He feels the familiar buzz of Steve's own healing, science near magic, wounds internal and external closing. He nudges the healing along some, and, remembering that Steve had not been sleeping well, laces it with spell to ease his sleep.

He could stay. He could stay and explain, but while he _is_ the Loki they knew, he is also not. He is mostly not, too many centuries passed. Even if they believe him, even if they mostly adjust around things now, he knows that Odin will be furious at the death of Muninn and will hunt him down for treason, and now, despite all the joys of his time with these mortals, he cannot risk ever having his _self_ taken again. _Because_ of his time with these mortals—_his_ mortals—he cannot risk them coming to harm.

He looks around the medical bay, the lights low, then back to Steve. He studies Steve for a few long moments, committing his features to memory.

"Goodbye," he says, and leaves.


End file.
